


Wealth and Waste

by apprenticenanoswarm



Category: Constantine: The Hellblazer (Comics), Hellblazer, Hellblazer & Related Fandoms, Lucifer (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Short and Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:48:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26912410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apprenticenanoswarm/pseuds/apprenticenanoswarm
Summary: In which Lucifer is a rich, lovesick dork.
Relationships: John Constantine/Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV), John Constantine/Mazikeen (Lucifer TV)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 66





	Wealth and Waste

Dear sweet lovely John was visiting and Lucifer was _delighted_.

“King of Denmark,” he said, proffering the cigars with one hand and deftly pickpocketing John’s horrible cheap Silk Cuts with the other. “A personal favorite, although I believe I’ve got some Ghurka Black Dragon somewhere in the bedroom if you’re partial, darling.”

“Nah. Cheers.”

“Elderflower Gin Liqueur,” he said the next day, presenting the glass with a flourish. “Courtesy of the renowned Cambridge Distillery.”

“Izzat right? Blimey. Think I’d prefer a beer if you’ve got one.”

“I’ve added several new volumes to my collection that I think might be of interest to you,” he said the day after that, flinging open the doors to his private library and waggling his eyebrows before adding: “Some are the only copies still intact on Earth. Utterly priceless.”

“Very nice. Very nice. Why don’t you scan ‘em and stick ‘em on the internet? Make ‘em accessible, like. I do most of my research on the internet these days.”

“It’s impossible,” the King of Hell wailed that evening, collapsing onto the bar with his head in his hands.

Mazikeen smoked a Silk Cut at him and said, contemplatively, “Y’know, they’re really not that bad.”

0

John didn’t date young people, a category he defined as ‘anyone five years younger than me’.

Even his last boyfriend, thirty-eight-year-old Simon, had seemed heartbreakingly vulnerable and new to the world, certainly not equipped to contend with even the everyday horrors that dogged John’s feet; sudden, prolonged coughing fits, knuckles that ached in cold weather, steady disillusionment with his own once-precious political ideals. Simon had barely any wrinkles at the edges of his bright, curious eyes. Simon had dreams and a faith in… not humanity, exactly, but in the world, and his place in the world, a certainty that things would, eventually, work themselves out.

The relationship had lasted slightly less than four months.

John watched Lucifer prance over to his piano, aglow with the love and admiration pouring off his legions of fans and followers as they crowded round to watch him play, and thought about Simon.

“He’s older than most stars,” muttered Mazikeen, who seemed to take a vivisectionist’s interest in John and exorcists in general.

“He’s a _kid_ ,” said John, and drank his beer.

0

This wasn’t disloyalty, Mazikeen reminded herself as she fumbled with the breadknife (useless _blunt_ fucking thing, trust humans to invent a knife that couldn’t do the _one job_ a knife was supposed to do.) She was a patriotic citizen of Hell and she was acting in her King’s best interests.

The exorcist was preferable to the cop.

The simple facts: Chloe was Heavenbound; John was not. When John died (probably in less than a decade), Lucifer, the eternal romantic, would chase his soul back home and build him an infernal palace, taking Mazikeen with him, and she would have her family again. Her family would have their king again. And Lucifer would have his boyfriend forever.

“Evening, love,” said John when he settled at the bar in front of her, shoulders slumped, tired, always tired, grimly acclimated to his tiredness. “Nice corset. Had one just like that myself back in the day. Before the gut came in. Gawd, ageing really is a piece of piss.”

And… yes, fine, Mazikeen had her own reasons for preferring John. Not one member of Lucifer’s wholesome new circle of friends ever complimented her clothes sincerely or listened with such glee as she described what she’d done to an attempted date-rapist’s knees.

“Present for you from the boss,” she said briskly, reaching under the bar.

He groaned. “Not another one.”

She set the plate before him and whisked away the napkin covering it.

His jaw dropped. His eyes bulged.

Never having attempted to prepare a human meal before and vaguely self-conscious, she said, “That’s how it’s supposed to look, right? Just… yellow and white and lumpy?”

“You made me a chip butty,” he breathed.

Jesus Christ – were those tears? What the fuck had she _done_?

“I just made what Lucifer told me to make,” she snapped, as he damn near unhinged his jaw. “And that’s disgusting. Chew your food, you animal.”

Cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk preparing for Winter, he took her hand between his own, and squeezed it, and _nope_. That was her limit. She had better things to do with her life than fall for a tragic mess of a man like John Constantine.

(Besides, when he was safely in Hell, they’d have all the time in the world.)

She put two fingers between her lips and whistled, sharp and shrill, alerting Lucifer to his soon-to-be-lover’s arrival, and beat a hasty retreat.

**The end**


End file.
